


before the batteries die

by paintstroke



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Addiction, Care, Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Observations, Stimulants, Worry, unexamined feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:22:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28038372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paintstroke/pseuds/paintstroke
Summary: The United States Marine Corps may have designed its standard operating procedures to fuck with sleep, but the marines always found ways to get by.  For Brad, it was dip pressed between his teeth and lip. It was impossible to fall asleep with tobacco in his mouth.Behind him, in the vehicle, he hears the rattle of a pill bottle, the screw lid of a canteen opening.Everyone has their preferred method for staying alert.
Relationships: Brad Colbert & Nate Fick, Brad Colbert/Nate Fick
Comments: 4
Kudos: 34





	before the batteries die

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by (but not fulfilling) a few **Loose Lips Sink Ships** prompts:
> 
> (1) Nate gets addicted to Ripped Fuel in some perverse sense of 'must always be awake to ensure my men don't get fucked with'
> 
> (2) ‘Nate pops some Ripped Fuel and it's Ray's job to unfuck this situation per Brad's orders.’
> 
> Which, for some reason, I had written down as 'Nate' character prompts and completely missed the requested ship content. *covers eyes*

  


* * *

  


On watch, Brad’s world narrows into two-hour segments. For one hundred and twenty minutes, his entire focus is on observation and threat assessment. His body’s adapted to the quick shift turnover; Brad probably couldn’t sleep more than two hours if he tried. 

The United States Marine Corps may have designed its standard operating procedures to fuck with sleep, but the marines always found ways to get by. For Brad, it was dip pressed between his teeth and lip. It was impossible to fall asleep with tobacco in his mouth, although the initial head rush had faded long ago. He makes one last visual sweep of the landscape. Nothing had changed.

Brad hits Ray with the handset, trading off the shift. Ray blinks awake, takes the hook, and stares blankly while his mind reboots itself. 

Brad leaves Ray to wake up, stepping over two empty ranger graves before he crouches. Behind him, in the vehicle, he hears the rattle of a pill bottle, the screw lid of a canteen opening. 

Everyone has their preferred method for staying alert. 

He touches Walt’s shoulder, gently waking him. “Go switch with Trombley.”

By all rights he should take the additional steps to his own grave and claim two full precious hours of sleep for himself. Instead, Brad ducks out from under the cammie netting and walks alongside the berm. The Humvee is rapidly swallowed by the darkness. The vehicles are spaced out, a precaution against incoming fire, though the night has been quiet. Brad walks down their sector until he catches sight of the covered back of the command truck.

Nearby, he can just barely make out the silhouettes of the men on watch. Fick and Wynn sit just behind the crest of the berm, M16s nearby and NVGs up. 

He crouches beside the LT. Brad shifts his glance to Gunny Wynn and nods a greeting. Wynn nods back, then stands and brushes himself off. There’s something in the glance Wynn shoots at him that Brad can’t quite interpret, holding Brad’s gaze for a long moment or two before he trudges back toward the truck. 

Taking it as permission, Brad settles himself near Fick. 

There’s an energy in the Lieutenant, something edgy and scratching where Fick would usually be solid and reassuring. 

“Can’t sleep?” Fick asks softly. The friendly question itself is a relief, a quiet signal that Fick’s willing to bend regulations. 

Brad holds his tongue at first. If he says he was on his way to do just that, he’ll be obliged to follow through and leave. Brad’s vision drops to Fick’s hands. There’s a familiar tremor in them, the type of tremor that usually indicates that he’ll need to move Ray to the backseat in the next few hours when his high fades. 

“I rested earlier. Did you, sir?” Brad asks. It’s the same question that he’d ask any of his men, but to pose it to Fick definitely crossed a line. He’s not responsible for Fick in the same way that he is for Trombley or Hasser, but Brad’s ready to offer his men. He’s pretty sure Trombley could take another watch if Christeson or Stafford need the rest more, if that was why the LT was out here on watch. 

Fick gives a short shrug and leans into his NVGs, hiding his expressive face. 

There are facts here that should have run counter to this situation. They’ve got most of the battalion around them, and so far there’s been no sign that the armored division is going to return to challenge their takeover. Even at fifty percent watch, they should all be taking these days to rest up. Fick’s not, and Brad usually trusts the LT’s instincts. He feels a prickle of unease travel down the back of his neck. He glances over his shoulder at Gunny, and gestures. Gunny nods. Seen and understood: Brad will stay at the LT’s side this shift. 

Usually, when they do this, it’s companionable. They’ve talked of many things over long nights on watch, keeping each other awake and mentally alert. Brad craves that conversation, especially after everything that had happened earlier.

But tonight, Fick stays quiet.

The empty desert magnifies the silence.

  


* * *

  


They stay north of the airfield another day. 

One MRE per day isn’t nearly enough. Most of the men are cramped with hunger, but they’re all confident that they can get through it. Hell, the USMC made _sure_ they’d been through worse in basic training. And the men from Alpha company that do buy extra food in the town regret it later, their stomachs not used to the local diet. 

Brad’s team jokes about him being a momma-hen when he fusses over their food but he has his reasons. Combat readiness. Morale. The sort of things that he’s responsible for as team leader.

Brad knows it’s the LT approaching before he consciously registers it. Something about the way Fick moves means that even out of the corner of his eye, Brad can instantly identify him. The LT spares Team One Alpha a quick glance, nodding briefly. 

“Have you eaten, sir?” Brad chances. 

Lt. Fick gives him a tight smile, and Brad can immediately read the negative on the LT’s face. Brad isn’t sure if it’s a self-sacrificing adoption of the ‘officers eat last’ code when there was no mess hall around, or if Fick had actually been so busy with the reports and paperwork that he was still expected to do that he’d forgotten. Their one joy out here. It figures. 

“Save me from the pain of having to eat another tube of fucking peanut butter, sir?” Brad holds out the offensive tube and his foil-wrapped crackers, ready to toss them over.

“I’m fine, Brad. Honestly.” Fick waves his offering away with a hand full of papers. “I need to get to command.”

He doesn’t look fine though, he seems even more stressed. His loping stride is subdued, a little less quick than usual, as if the weight of everything they’ve done is pressing down on his shoulders. Brad frowns.

  


* * *

  


They case a small village early in the morning and late afternoon, when people are moving around, but none appear to be Saddam’s soldiers. There’s no sign of Fedayeen activity. 

Meesh kills the goat. He knows where to grease palms because none of the spoils are shared with Bravo. Brad digs into a tasteless humrat, hunger making the rice and beans only slightly more palatable. He feels resentful after walking by H&S and smelling the stewing meat — not that any of his platoon had been invited to share. He tells himself that at least the rice and beans wont give him the shits and watches the POGs with irritation.

  


* * *

  


They stop along the MSR for refueling and resupply. Brad turns to his window. He waits a moment or two, expecting Fick to appear. When he doesn’t, it feels like there’s something missing. He listens another few moments to the usual radio chatter, but no news comes through the headset. Rather than tie up the channel, Brad heads back along the line, walking back to the command vehicle. 

Fick’s already in the back of the truck, flipping over the newest maps. He nods a greeting; as if Brad was expected, as if he’d been summoned, although there had been no call for team leaders, nevermind Brad alone. Fick welcomes him with a simple glance, and that’s enough. Brad relaxes a little, slipping into place beside Fick. 

In the distance Brad can hear Wynn organizing the stop, hollering out orders and getting men moving around the herringbone their vehicles had formed. 

Brad trusts his team, and trusts that he’s needed more here than there. 

There’s an exhaustion in Fick’s eyes. It’s partially reassuring, because Brad can tell it comes from a valid love of his men and an unwillingness to see them as simple pawns in this war. Early on, he’d added Lt. Fick’s name to the names of people he’d live and die for based on that respect. He’d do so much for Fick, an acknowledgment of the young Lieutenant’s courage and intelligence and heart. 

He’d do so much to erase the tired bags under his eyes, to take some of the weight from his shoulders, but in his position, there’s only so much he _can_ do. He swallows his complaints about acting as a rolling target in the worst road trip ever and offers quiet support as Fick leafs through the new intel.

  


* * *

  


The days start to blur together. The mortars add something new to this particular stretch of road. 

Brad watches Fick chew absently on the butt of a pen as he looks at the paper printout and compares the map to what’s being displayed on Brad’s Blue Force tracker. It’s painfully obvious that they’re here without backup, even without seeing the lack of friendly blue diamonds in their AO. The only upside is that none of the mechanized Iraqi troops are showing up on the area either. It might even mean that they aren’t there. 

Lt. Fick’s eyes never land on the AO for more than a half-second. The calm that had gotten the platoon through the first few days had evaporated. He’s tense. They all are. 

“Sir,” Brad says, unsure of what he wants to follow the word up with. They hadn’t seen any men in this hamlet either, just women and children.

Lt. Fick’s cool green eyes land on him. Brad hesitates, weighing his options. The dark circles under Fick’s eyes are stark against his skin. 

“We push on,” Fick says. 

Brad nods. It’s the conclusion his recon force had come to. “Next hamlet them. Maybe we can catch them there.”

Fick tucks his pen into his vest. It takes him a few tries, and when Brad absently follows the movement. The lack of coordination is out of place and mildly jarring. 

Fick raises his hand to his headset. He ducks around the vehicle as he talks to battalion. 

There are things Brad wants. A well-rested LT is high on that list — _no one_ makes good decisions when they are sleep deprived. 

Fick comes back into view, looking worn and weary, as if the phone call had aged him by years. “The captain wants us to hold here a while, Brad. They don’t want us too far ahead of RCT-1 this time.”

“Roger that, sir.” Brad says. He pauses. Fick glances at him while he’s still trying to decide if he should say something. He thinks that Fick reads his intentions, because Fick’s green eyes slide away. He can see him clench his teeth. Deliberately, Fick reaches into his pack, pulls out a bottle of Ripped Fuel. 

Brad had suspected. Fick uncaps it and takes two; from the rattle of the bottle it’s mostly empty. He puts it back, and Brad catches sight of the PERSON written on the bottom in thick black sharpie strokes. 

Fick held Brad’s gaze again. There’s a cold challenge in his expression, and Brad’s sure that if he comments, harsh words will follow. It’s not his place, after all. His mind circles the idea but he can’t come up with any appropriate words. He stays silent. 

“It’s going to be a long day,” Fick said. “Let your team to rest while they can.”

Hypocrite.

  


* * *

  


Ray is on comms, half-dozing in the relative shade of the vehicle while they wait, yet again, for word from battalion that they can start moving. Again. The door of the humvee is open to catch what little breeze exists, and he’d stretched out his feet to rest on the door’s window. It had looked vaguely hammock-like when he had seen Brad try it the other day. Ray discovers quickly that isn’t actually comfortable, but stubbornness keeps him from shifting. 

The warm sunshine disappears from his face, and two heavy impacts at the edge of the roof rock the Humvee. Ray cracks his eyes open, lifting an eyebrow at Brad, who leans over further, a particularly pissed off look on his face. Ray’s second eyebrow shoots up as he registers Brad’s mood. He yanks his legs in and sits up properly, blinking away the haze of sleep. 

Brad gives him a smile. It’s his dangerous smile, the one that warns those quick enough to read it that he is going to enjoy causing some pain. 

“Tell me, Ray, did you happen to see Lieutenant Fick while you were on guard?”

Ray had. Since they’d secured the position they’d managed to get down to a 25% watch, and he had happened to be on the same shift as the Lieutenant. Their quadrant had been narrow enough that most of the men on watch had gathered together. 

Ray bobs his eyebrows, a wide grin sliding across his face. Sometimes, the way to outmaneuver Brad is to lay the bullshit on heavy. “Brad, last night the LT and I spent two excellent hours on watch together atop a _most_ scenic berm, watching RCT-1 lay waste to a munitions dump. Don’t tell me he grew into his big boy officer shoes and has now wandered off. Are we a SAR team again?”

Brad doesn’t move his hands from the roof of the humvee. He leans in closer, physically trapping Ray in place. “Listen to me carefully, Ray. I don’t want to know how much Ripped Fuel you gave him,” he says in a soft tone, the one he uses when he is deadly serious, “but you are going to go unfuck the LT.”

He reaches out and takes the handset from Ray, tipping his head behind him. 

“Why, my dear Sergeant Colbert,” Ray drawls. “Please tell me that you did not just imply that I have defiled the precious virginity of our platoon leader?”

Brad doesn’t rise to the bait. “Ray.” His voice edges into something sharper. 

Ray kisses the air. Brad’s annoyance is more amusement than anything, all bark and no bite. “I’m sure he’s still saving himself for you.” Ray slides off the seat and pushes past Brad. “Don’t get your big gay panties in a twist over this, Brad.”

“Fix this situation, Ray,” Brad threatens.

“We all take that shit, Brad,” Ray raises his voice, suddenly irritated at being singled out. Who wouldn’t share a few pills with their buddies? “What is it that’s _really_ bothering you here?”

Brad’s expression is all stormclouds. Ray grabs a few bottles of water out of the hatch — both as an excuse in general and in case the LT is still using and dehydrated.

Brad still hadn’t worked out an answer.

Ray leaves, but it’s not because he’s intimidated. Brad knows how the damned uppers work. It isn’t like there’s an antidote kicking around. A few hours and Fick would be fine, and Brad could go back to having wet dreams about connecting his watch to the Blue Force tracker and single-handedly developing Skynet or whatever got him off late at night. 

With almost anyone else, he’d roll up to them and tell them that Big Gay Brad was throwing a hissy fit. The other enlisted men would get it. They’d roll their eyes and bitch with Ray about pussies and fascist regimes and then quietly cut down the Ripped Fuel because despite the fact that he’s a big, gay, geek, Brad is still _Brad_ and somehow manages to have a reputation that strikes fear and admiration into the hearts of men. 

Ray was guessing that wouldn’t work on the LT, though.

  


* * *

  


Brad’s feet carry him towards the command truck before he has a chance to think the better of it. He can see it’s Fick _almost_ awake on the passenger side seat, head jerking up occasionally at something on the radio but drooping more often than not.

Brad catches Wynn’s eye, and Wynn nods slowly at him. Brad nods back, content that someone is watching out for the LT’s shut-eye. He bypasses the CP and heads back to their sister platoon; heading for old friends instead. 

He doesn’t need to interrupt if the LT is actually getting some sleep. He hopes it lasts. The tension in his chest releases a little. He’s glad something Ray said got through.

  


* * *

  


Eric’s got cards, and the two hours disappear in muttered complaints and grubby cardboard with images of Iraqi targets on them. Brad can’t force the portraits to matter. At this point, they’re just going to be driving to contact, they’re not going to be reconning any of these targets. 

It’s just how it’s going to be. 

Some things, he just has to accept.

  


* * *

  


The temperature plummets. The one, brief upside is the thick smattering of stars that are visible. But the icy bite of the air demanded attention, making watch uncomfortable in new ways. And to add to the annoyance, a hot mike in Two-Three had been fouling up their communication line — he’d sent Ray over to try to help but it didn’t sound like they’d had any luck yet. Leaving Trombley at the turret, watching their sector, Brad heads out to make contact with the other teams.

On the berm, the men sprawl on their fronts, making sure that they can’t be silhouetted against the rising moon. Brad slips in close to Fick, laying out beside him. It’s no longer surprising to find Fick awake and taking shifts with the enlisted men. 

Brad brings his scope up to his eye. Fick’s quiet. No changes to report, apparently. 

Abruptly he hears the chatter from Two-Three cut off. He breathes a sigh of relief, grateful to not have the constant noise in his ear. Problem fixed. Well, one problem fixed. 

At first it’s just the tip of Brad’s boot that knocks against the Lieutenant’s. It’s not something that he’s consciously aware of at first. It’s the faint tremor that attracts his attention. Brad shifts until the side of his body is pressed against the LT’s. Fick’s whole body is faintly shaking. The ground holds the chill of the night, icy cold and uncomfortable. Brad’s wondering if it’s that or something more. 

Brad shifts back from his scope, observing out of the corner of his eye. Brad's gaze traces the lines of Fick’s face, the tension in Fick’s jaw. He hates both possibilities that come to mind. Even high on Ripped Fuel, Fick doesn’t spill his thoughts like Ray though, so it’s tough to judge his mental state, but his fingers tap at the NVG case restlessly and Brad wonders.

The LT doesn’t take too long to realize where Brad’s attention is focused. 

“Sir,” Brad says, but he can’t push any further. 

Fick understands too much, too quickly. His lips tighten. Fick deliberately reaches out and touches the butt of the cartridge in his M16. It’s marking indicate tracers only, a reminder that his steadiness means very little in the grand scheme of thing. Though Fick hasn’t said anything, Brad feels a rush of shame. It’s not his business. Not at all. 

Fick sets down the NVGs and turns a cold glare on Brad. His lips are pressed back against his teeth, his expressive face schooled into an uncanny blankness. “I’m doing what I have to,” he says. It’s not a good enough explanation. Brad wants to demand what exactly is so important to push him to the limits like this. 

But there are divisions between them. 

“Of course, sir.” 

There’s no other acceptable reply. 

There are too many boundaries between them, between an officer and an enlisted marine. Brad stayed where he was, offering support in the only way he could. Silently.

  


* * *

  


Brad glares at Ray when he returns to his team’s vehicle. He lets his murderous intentions shine through. 

Unfortunately, Ray’s used to receiving that look. It doesn’t inspire the appropriate response.

“You had a mission, Ray,” Brad says, his voice low and quiet. Walt’s up on the MK-19, probably listening in. He doesn’t want this to turn into gossip so he keeps his words vague. Ray understands though. 

Ray gives a shrug. “Everyone comes down at some point, homes. No way to force it.” He passes Brad the radio hook. Unbothered by the stimulants himself, Ray theatrically stretches out in the shadow of their vehicle. Brad wonders if he’s just doing it to prove a point, if Ray will just lay there long enough to prove that he can handle the Ripped Fuel better than their Lieutenant can, that he can sleep while they’ve got the time. 

Brad doesn’t like it at all.

  


* * *

  


When Brad heads over to Bravo Two’s command truck; Fick is in the back with Stafford, staring at poster-sized maps that had appeared from somewhere. He’s holding a water bottle with his ungodly mixture of coffee, hot chocolate powder, and cream, a thick brown sludge that's worthy of a raised eyebrow.

“Brad.”

It’s a summons. Brad heads over. “We’ve got a new objective.”

Fick’s at ease in command, passes down the new orders, points out a few landmarks so that Brad can cross-reference them later on the Blue Force Tracker. 

Fick’s eyes are quick, glancing from Brad to the AO, not admitting to the battered exhaustion that Brad had seen in his face a mere two hours ago. 

Fick’s hand slip into a pocket and into his mouth, almost absently, a movement that might be hidden to anyone not watching Fick with the full-focused intensity of all his recon training.

  


* * *

  


Brad finds the LT by the gate of the cigarette factory. “Sir?” he asks. He hopes he manages to imbue the words with what he really means — what are you doing out here, why aren’t you in your rack?

The quickness of earlier has leeched away. Fick glances out into the rubble-strewn street. “Just keeping an eye out.” He folds his arms and leans against the concrete barrier at the edge of the gate. Brad hates it, instinctively. Of all the areas where they have cover, Fick’s standing out here. 

Still, that doesn’t stop Brad from moving to stand beside Fick. He has a choice. He could complain about Fick standing where a stray bullet — or a targeted one — could catch him. Fick’s relative rank makes that a bad idea. At best he’ll get snapped at. At worse, he’ll get one of Fick’s cold-eyed reminders of the divisions between them, the barrier that doesn’t allow friendship. Those take longer to recover from than he’d like to admit.

“What are you expecting to see, sir?” he asks, phrasing it like he’s trying to get a sitrep.

Fick runs his fingers across the seam of his pocket repetitively. He’s tense and on edge. “I don’t know,” he says. When he looks back to Brad it’s with painful honesty. “But I need to be ready.”

Brad nods, because viscerally, he can understand that. Except common sense would dictate that a part of that readiness is still sleep. “Ray has an ‘interesting’ take on what happens when sleep deprivation sets in, sir,” Brad says lightly. He uses the same sort of quiet voice he’d use to soothe a wild animal. He also carefully does not look at Fick, as if eye contact could be construed as a challenge. “If you need something to bore you to sleep, I would happily send him your way.”

“Brad, when you discover where to find a shower, a home-cooked meal, and a real mattress, I’m interested. But you can keep Ray all to yourself.”

“How did I get so lucky, sir?” Brad asks dryly. 

He’s rewarded with a flicker of a smile. Brad’s stuck by the intensity of relief that he feels over the return of Fick’s humor. The warmth in his chest is disproportional. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed their moments of friendship.

Brad lingers a little longer. 

He catches the expression in Fick’s face as he turns and watches the inner courtyard. For a moment, Brad gets the impression that it’s not an Iraqi threat that Fick is worried about, not with the wary look he graces H&S company with. Brad leans against the wall and looks back out over the courtyard. The whole company was together. 

It should have been reassuring.

  


* * *

  


The electrical plant actually _does_ have a shower, which is a nice bonus.

  


* * *

  


They’re in a POG camp when Brad realizes exactly what the LT had been worried about. 

At this point, Brad’s too exhausted to monitor anyone beyond his team. The faint wheeze and whine of Ray struggling to breathe through his allergies is assurance enough that someone else is there and asleep, he collapses into his own grave. 

The next morning, he slowly comes to realize what they slept through. The Lance Corporal underground is buzzing with the gossip; Brad hears versions from Jacks and Poke before he even brushes his teeth. 

Brad briefly considers the momentary delight it would be to ream out Casey Kasem. It’d almost be worth the NJP. Fick had the rank that’d protect him, though. Brad smiles. It would have been beautiful to see.

The understanding really sinks in when he catches sight of Fick on a few consecutive nights, still watching over the platoon. There’s determination, and anger, and Brad’s pretty sure that no one’s going to get the chance to fuck with them again, but Fick’s evidently making sure of that.

He wonders how many other nights Fick had stayed awake just for that reason, how often Griego had been digging at their defenses. Goddamned command.

It’s not long before Fick curls up and succumbs to the camp plague, too. Brad guesses that the LT will suffer the withdrawal headaches and pains along with the stomach bug that’s decimating the whole platoon, billeted as they are on a septic field.

Brad thinks that’ll be the end of the Ripped Fuel.

  


* * *

  


It’s not.

  


* * *

  


Brad spends more time than he’d like watching Nate run his fingers across the edge of his pocket. It’s a repetitive motion; almost a tell, and it’s become just as distracting as his habit of chewing on pens. 

“Tell me that your pocket isn’t full of Ripped Fuel, sir.” Brad brushes his knuckles lightly along the material, just below Fick’s fingertips. Not enough to be a real touch. 

The LT won’t look him in the eye. “Someone needs to be on watch,” Fick says. It’s ridiculous because it’s true. They have a supposedly safe encampment, eighteen thousand Americans around them, and they still need to be on guard because command is willing to mess with Fick to prove a point.

“May I remind you that you have a whole platoon at your disposal, sir?”

The LT turns a look on him that he’s seen before. It’s his ‘don’t be an idiot’ look, the disappointment and annoyance and everything else as plain as anything. 

There’s no one else who has the authority to shelter Bravo Two from the higher ranking officers. 

Brad can see that, and something else in the LT’s eyes. The LT seems to be pleading with him to accept it. Brad nods, understanding the silent request.

The LT turns to his camp ‘desk’, the crate and laptop a strange addition to the field, and types. Brad sprawls out beside him in the grass. There had been care packages waiting, despite his insistence that his parents didn’t need to send anything. He bites into a fresh piece of nicotine gum, the texture too stiff in his mouth. He tucks it where his dip should sit; he misses the buzz. He’s got an issue of Easyriders tucked into a Wired magazine, and all in all, he’s content to lounge here rather then in a tent.

  


* * *

  


Brad’s no stranger to withdrawal. 

He carefully tucks the last tin of dip into his pack, hiding it away. Knowing it’s there helps. He eats too many Skittles just to keep something in his mouth. He’s sick of them after a day. 

The LT’s back to being billeted with the other officers. It’s a loss that Brad feels more keenly than he would like to admit. He worries about the isolation; he wonders if Fick’s still defending the choices that kept the platoon alive and mostly uninjured. He’s heard good things about Patterson, he hopes that Fick is not just stuck with Casey Kasem and Encino Man and Captain America.

At the beginning of this whole thing, he would have guessed it would be a relief to lose the constant presence of their assigned officer. After all, recon marines were used to being independent operators, getting their orders and then trusted to carry out the commands without supervision. Now there’s just worry over one of ‘his’ men that he can’t see. He’d caught glimpses of Fick folding under pressure from command in the field, and he can’t shake the possibility that he’s under even more pressure now. 

But Fick can hold his own. Brad’s been assured of this, time and time again, by Fick’s own actions.

  


* * *

  


Brad listens to Ray thrash at night. 

One more reminder of something none of them have any control over; the nightmares that are slowly coming for all of them. 

It’s miserable for everyone. He wonders how many others in the platoon are awake. 

He wonders if the nightmares are getting the LT, too.

Ray would deny that they were part of the epinephrine withdrawal, but they were always worse coming off a Ripped Fuel high.

  


* * *

  


He’s not sure what to think of the sixth sense he’s developed that seems to let him know where the LT is. It’s not like there’s a lot else to think about — returning to Kuwait has been a maddening mix of boredom and PT. Still. There are some things he can’t dwell on.

Despite the late hour, Brad ducks into the mess hall. He tells himself it’s just a whim. 

Fick’s working at one of the tables, pen scratching across the page. The rest of the tent is abandoned at this hour, the buffet tables silently waiting the first breakfast shift, still hours away. 

Brad sits down across from Fick, sprawling out in one of the plastic chairs. 

The Lieutenant lifts an eyebrow at him briefly, and Brad gives a minute shake of his head. He doesn’t _need_ anything, per se. Fick goes back to writing. When he gets to the end of whatever he’d been doing, he shuts the notebook, aligns it neatly with the file folders. 

“Lights out in thirty mikes,” Fick says, breaking the silence. 

“My team will be squared away, sir.”

Neither says what they really want to. There are too many men around, not enough privacy. Canvas makes for a piss-poor sound barrier. Their late night conversations about battles and history and repetition are a thing of the past; here the threat of being taken to task for fraternization is constantly looming. Especially after Fick’s interactions with the chain of command. 

Eventually, Fick taps one of the folders. “I have a meeting with Godfather tomorrow.”

Brad reaches for the paper cup beside Fick, steals a deliberate sip of the black coffee. Fick stares back, not backing down, carefully not reacting. Brad’s unsure of the point he’d wanted to make, unsettled by the tolerance Fick is showing. He sets the coffee down on his side of the table. “Get some sleep before that, sir,” Brad finally says. 

Fick winces, an expression that flashes so fast Brad isn’t sure he actually sees it, but he nods. 

“If there’s anything I can say, sir…” Brad keeps his voice low. He has to stop himself from reaching across the table. 

Fick shakes his head immediately, quick and deliberate. “You know this is my battle.” Fick wears his true armor much deeper than his Kevlar and vest. “They’ll have the facts,” he says. “I’m assured of this.”

Brad is not similarly assured of anything. He tries to keep that from his face, but he’s not sure how successful he it. 

Fick’s eyebrows pinch together. “What’s the time?”

Brad reluctantly checks his watch. “Late enough that I should go, sir,” he admits. Fick gathers his papers and they walk towards the door. Brad follows the extension cords to the corner, pulls the last of the lights. The tent is momentarily plunged into darkness before the floodlights outside start seeping in. Fick holds open the door. 

Brad feels like the air is thick between them, like some force is pulling them together. He lingers at the doorway. Fick’s pupils are large and dark, making him look softer, somehow, but no less deadly. 

It’s a moment that calls for something, there’s an expectation in the air but it’s not something Brad can pin down as anything in particular. It demands a connection, a touch. He raises a hand and claps Fick’s shoulder. The instant he does it, he knows it’s the wrong thing to do. Fick tenses underneath his hand and he quickly removes it. Brad doesn’t look around to see if anyone was watching. He’s got nothing to feel guilty for. The feeling of the moment shatters, but at least he can breathe again. 

“I won’t say ‘good luck’, sir,” Brad says. “The truth will be enough.”

Fick shrugs and taps the papers against his leg. “Let’s hope.”

Brad turns, heading back to the barracks tent. He’s not so sure where the thoughts keep coming from or when the impulsion to seek out Fick became so ingrained. He forces himself to keep his eyes front, not looking over his shoulder to watch Fick disappear in a different direction.

  


* * *

  


Brad likes dawn. In more pleasant locations, it was partially because the morning waves were always the best before the wind picked up, but even out here in this dry wasteland, the light, the promise of a new day starting holds a certain satisfaction. He likes watching the change.

  


* * *

  


They fly back to the States on a civilian airline. Everyone crammed in too-narrow seats, knee to knee and shoulder to shoulder. Brad finds Kocher and Redman, sitting with them in a subtle show of solidarity. Also, he’s pretty sure that staying away from his team will be the only way that none of them end up murdered; everyone’s been on edge and irritable, even through the relief of heading home. 

He keeps an eye on the back of Fick’s head. Brad gets up once, uses the little plane bathroom, so sanitized and scented soaps and clean surfaces for all that it’s still a latrine, a reminder that civilian life is only a few hours away. It’s nothing like the slow steam back from Afghanistan. He glances over on his way back to his seat. Fick’s asleep, or faking a reasonable approximation. 

Brad doesn’t like to think of himself as sentimental, but he’s glad to see it. 

They’ve all made it home. 

Brad heads back and sits down. Maybe that’s the most any of them can hope for.

  


* * *

  


The shift in altitude is gradual, and Nate shifts his jaw to pop his ears as the flight crew starts preparing for the final descent. The broken sleep did nothing to help him; grogginess and fatigue are his constant companions. He slips his hand discreetly into his pocket. He doesn’t look around, he does nothing that will attract attention to himself. 

He’s learned.

Nate swallows the little capsules dry. He just needs a little edge, a little boost. It’ll be enough so that he can face whatever is waiting for them when they land. 

Just a little extra. 

It’s not like he _needs_ them. 

He’s not addicted.

  


* * *

  



End file.
